Like a Rose

They say that love is like a rose That stems to scrape the scattered sky. But in their poetry and prose They always fail to specify The nature of the soil from which A flower budding upwards flows. A fissure of alluvium, rich; A sylvan tower from it grows. My love pertains to more than just The stem, the thorns, the lovely rose. My love for soil and ash and dust And grass on which I may repose Is just as swift as that towards The bud. So then let me propose To fit ourselves with pens not swords And wallow in the verdant rows, The world to which I am attached. And that profound devotion knows My love to my beloved’s matched.